The FOUNTAIN BLUE as OPPOSED to the empty SPRING

During the RED FLY NATION dispensation:
While doing the band-thing now so many yrs ago, makes stand-out just those plateaued moments when I thought I'd gotten away from something I was in fact participating IN. The places of all my changes, is better remarked upon as the places I first saw light. Light in its absence is entirely the "strength" of its properties as we'd want to see. The strange occurrences of having peed blood were always in conditions when I was only seeing black & white anyways. Milky grays around me, really, and black wine urine as I'm screaming, "my soul" inside my head, where home was. That mortality seemed to be on the line, power-spots became believable to me, as convalescence would in the end make me better--with no other treatment for my dissipation. That I'd been in one place a 100yrs was easily defined, but reckless, because I thought I was stealing what otherwise were convergent places where relationship would be found. So, there are two things here: People & their relenting of my woes, & places as in the constant of objectivity in just what I could find centeredness in my solitarian existence. Like the guilt in sitting in a chair where you had died a thousand deaths--asking yourself, if you ought to have. I took solace in reggae anthems saying, "one day we will walk these streets forever." Knowing nothing stole my revelry for life-well-lived, I'd begun to answer what it is to live. Just know that before treatment for my schizophrenia, lucid ideation of really essential moments about Ultimate Reality was the stop-gap before I found it, as now, acceptable to ask of such relevance as I deliberate on below: OK OK I suggest the sense that we should live unto departure, is dividing what is more easily thought of, and in actuality IS, as ONE world. No thresholds, only eternality. So, all symbols of eternity are in this life, where do you contend you'd know them elsewhere? Lets say we become objective about time. Time is entirely the single most monarchical principal which is merely a bump in the road, and the only sense of material world we'd know. What if upon our apostasy from the "norm" the impermanent record is dismissed? Isn't time the only thing imprisoning us, and as such is as much under our control as is the sky demonstrating the limits to which we would go--and we do GO, Right!!?? We elevate our Being with the cadence of the enveloping light of day. We can seek Higher Ground ad infinitum...as the one thing we know is true, is that EVERYTHING is!! Behind any field of spectral thought, the edenic day we mitigate with DREAMS about our very slumber, has such profound truth in the life our mind, that all along we have become consumed by louder, brighter, more epiphenomena, than taking our lead from the subtlety of the slow fidelity that these fantastic filmy dreams are the first rung in a ladder into a tree of knowledge.
Excess all around, but I'm some gypsy--a hurried presence, maybe there in Newburgh, on my way, on my own, ready to see the planned vacation spot for me & my lady. A steely glance from this guy carrying a strapless suitcase & guitar seemed to indict the picture of me--now even less of a mendicant. It is foggy out this am., a quizzical look on my face records Valerie asking me, as if she is there, "Doest thou love the fog?" Dirt on pavement, puddles on the unproffered way across the parking lot, I'm muddling forward to the bus station. She says, "If you fear it, you hate it, & if you hate it you love it." (Evgenii Zamyatin) I'm drudged up from the bottom now, she's Rt, but there is no afterward. But a bird lunges at the run over pack of crackers at my periphery, like it was belched out of the mist. Aunt Eleanor's house is only a couple of blocks away--a neighborhood adjacent to the shopping cntr. I've seen phosphorescent fungus growing out of a tree there two houses up from hers. The next day someone smashes it in with their foot: nature as art has chaos with which to contend. I'll need a key for the bungalow up in the Catskills, Valerie will be waiting for me there. "Dip in, dip in--to the sea of possibilities." (Patti Smith) --language is the valley of tongues, the spirit decends to correspond with the obvious=the quantifying of surfaces--but our babel wants more. Paul's music, like Aaron--brother of Moses, is he who speaks as if digging a ditch in the sky, where "pirates of the airwaves" (Lee Perry) can be interred in their graves burying the encumbrances of the fine "liquid language awash" (Wallace Stevens?) thru music & its details, so it will rain down as the communicating ancients making known the world-to-come, if there is one.
Ok, Language in as holy a vein as music gets, is the thing that carries me over like this Coltrane thing I guess just called Coltrane, not a compilation. --from Prestige. He recorded this rt after he gave up H & got into Buddhist thought. Now one might think this makes him a mental apostate like the rest of us in our reconstructive efforts whatever they may be, & that means an IN on his creative motive. But, Coltrane has the language of Jazz, and thus his version of truth which obviously can reach us--clearly. Truth is static, & we're implicated by our listening & nods of approval= we're the ones destined to be changed by it. He is always the observer of what complicates our assertive egos, & makes it simple & easily solvent. IT's like Oh G-d he kept doing that. That's what I mean by static. I'd say like Kerouac, the observer is never sacrificed, even thru his dissipation. We're right there w/him, nowhere to go, our baby steps to his Giant Ones.
The meditative moments last night had one of the things I put on-the-BACK-burner as being the thing that would typically impel me to construe a night ardor. (So to speak, my motive was floundering.) This being torpidity, thence made realization a struggle but no less a pay-off toward now, of course--though I paid for this feeling then. It seemed all I could do was strike a vertiginous pose and all I wanted was a babe-on-the-lawn seeking the brighter atmosphere, looking into the light. I looked at my hands for what really is a conciliatory image, not unlike a geometric-ploy of a Mohammedan in their tantric response to a world of over-bearing images: scripture as pictorial design conveying the adherent out of the cosmic to the conveyance of that & Other-things. Images symbolic of sound e.g. the language of G-d's mind, are just as UNIQUE as my hands as IF they made pug marks on a path in the Wilderness and explanate of an instinct to be consoled in the distances we achieve to resume an objective cause. This would be a spiritual exercise, if not for linear thought bringing me out of the angst of LOSS of inner-attention. Inner-attention is always a godsend, but as that Higher Ground is what it is--some OTHER place/ the existential, I am typically deliberating on the exudation of some Lower Order of things. --a trifling ordeal, and the simplest to contemplate."I cut off my hair, and I rode straight away--to a wild & unknown country, where I could not go wrong." Dylan is an ascetic uncarved block, I chip away at an idea I think is me to the T, and yet I remain stalwart & unbounded toward the similar goal, still on my own.We are so blind, what there is to SEE gets divorced from what lens we USE & begin to adapt to. If you tend to want to learn from your sorrow, in the end we cease experiencing a refrain, thus a convenant is born. Sitting down by the still waters, looses us in the fray of normalcy, where it is best to be lost. Dylan claimed something in affiliation with Jewish identity, that Now you could call him a Zionist for life--this last pubicized trip he took to Jerusalem. This artist yet iconoclast, who has create a profound compassionate edifice for the underdog, takes a lable for a political movement, albeit cultural & now appertaining in a new voice that the conscience of those who may have only heard their own hopefully would have learned that still he couldn't leave anything behind. So, as pregnant a term as Islamo-fascism in the minds of the Israelis mutually arising neighbors--the Muslims, I imagine, wouldn't be part of his agonistic ritual before what is the convergence of the Big 3, The Holy of Holies.